


The Rain is the Punch Line (Things Can't Possibly Get Worse)

by purewanderlust



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crack, Crossover, Genderswap, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean had thought his life couldn’t possibly get any worse than it already was. He supposed this was his punishment for being so optimistic. Slight AU following "Death's Door," vague allusions to a previous non-con relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester had never been an optimist. From four years old, he had been painfully aware that things could, and almost certainly would always get worse. He had never had any illusions to the contrary. He’d known how he would grow up, and he had quickly come to terms with it.

But now Dean was genuinely starting to believe that his life could not possibly get any worse. Things had been bad enough after Cas…

Now Bobby was gone too.

Sam had steadfastly refused to let him burn their father figure’s body, so they had slipped back to the ruins of his house in the dead of night and buried him in the shade of the forest. Dean knew Sam was holding out for a miracle, so he’d indulged the request. But there had been no miraculous recovery; no God or angels to bring Bobby back, and Dean had driven them to a nearby liquor store before finding a motel for the night.

When he finally came to, face down on the carpet, the motel room was completely trashed, bottles scattered all around him and crap paintings torn from the wall and stomped into pieces. Two days had passed, and he was completely, utterly alone. The idea that Sam had left him too was so jarring that he was already reaching for his gun before he noticed the note on the bedside table.

Sam opened the door. “Dean,” he said, and his voice was reproachful. Dean dropped the gun and instead accepted the bottle of aspirin and the greasy stained paper bag that his little brother offered. He dry swallowed a handful of pills before Sam grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. He picked up Dean’s duffle, too, and dragged his brother out of the room without another word. Dean followed, too tired to argue.

The Impala was sitting, gleaming, in the parking spot outside their room.

“I, uh, went and got her back,” Sam explained unnecessarily, “I figured…”

 _We’ve lost enough already, she’s all we really have left._

Dean nodded, stepping forward and laying his palm flat on the hood of the car. He tried an approximation of a smile and Sam tenetively returned it.

“Now let’s get out of here before the manager sees what you did to that room.”

Dean didn’t even argue when Sam slid into the driver’s seat. It probably wouldn’t be the best way to start off the day, crashing his baby after a two-day bender. He crawled into the backseat and laid on his back, halfheartedly nibbling on one of the hash browns Sam had brought back.

The purring of the Impala’s engine was the most soothing thing he’d heard in a long time and it wasn’t long before Dean drifted off to sleep.

*

Sam drove the next few hours in silence, afraid to turn on the radio and wake his brother. He knew this was the first time Dean had slept without the assistance of drugs or alcohol for weeks. He was not about to end it because his drive was a little uneventful.

“Bored, Sammy?” Lucifer said conversationally, appearing in the passenger seat. Sam gritted his teeth.

“Go the fuck away.”

Lucifer clicked his tongue, scolding. “Such language, Sammy Boy. Didn’t you miss me?”

“Fuck you,” Sam snarled in an undertone, “You aren’t even real.”

“You keep saying that like you’re sure, kiddo,” Lucifer said, stretching languidly, resting his arm across the back of the seat, fingers at Sam’s neck, “But you have more conversation with me than you do with Dean-o back there, and you’re so certain that he is real.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Sam said. He was vaguely aware that if Dean woke up and found him talking to thin air again, it might be enough to completely break him. Sam remembered opening the door to their room earlier that day and seeing his big brother contemplating the barrel of his pistol. He pressed forcefully on the scar in his palm.

Lucifer barely flickered, “Are you worried about sending big brother over the edge, Sammy,” he mocked, “C’mon, let’s be real. Dean’s barely clinging to the edge. He spends most of his time wondering if he might do better just to let go.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re so touchy, Sam, I’m just telling you the truth.”

“Oh, of course,” Sam said sarcastically, “You’re telling me the truth. That must be why they call you the Prince of Lies.”

Lucifer’s fingers tangled in the hair at the base of his neck, “I don’t need to tell lies when the truth is so much worse, Sam,” he whispered, breath hot on the side of Sam’s face.

Sam jerked away as if he’d been burned, “Leave me alone,” he growled, pressing against the scar on his hand until his skin went completely white. Lucifer sneered, then flickered and vanished. Sam pulled the car over to the side of the road and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, taking deep, even breaths through his nose.

A quick glance in the backseat confirmed that Dean was still out cold, so Sam put the car back in gear and pulled back on to the highway before the lack of motion woke his brother up. He was going to have to be the strong one for a while now, and he’d be damned if hallucinations of Satan were going to stop him taking care of his brother.

*

Dean dreamt about deep water and gunshots. He was standing at the end of the world, holding a bloodied trenchcoat and a battered blue baseball cap when he heard someone call his name. He stared into the void before him, but the voice called out again.

“Dean, wake up!”

Dean shot bolt upright, hand fumbling for a gun that wasn’t there and hit his head on the roof of the Impala. Sam’s hand was on his shoulder.

“Hey, easy, it’s just me.” Sam said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the concern in his eyes, “We’re here.”

Dean scrubbed at his face. “Where’s here? And when?”

“Cassville, Missouri, six pm,” Sam answered, “I found a hunt.”

“A hunt?” Dean repeated back at him stupidly. Sam’s face fell slightly.

“I…I thought it would be a good idea,” he said uncertainly, “I mean, we have to do something with ourselves until we find the Levia--”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean interrupted, “What’ve we got?”

“Looks like a rogue demon,” Sam said, “So far there have been two disappearances and the only unusual thing at the scene was sulfur under the windows.”

“Sounds pretty open and shut,” Dean agreed, “We’ll find the sucker and gank him in the morning. I’m gonna go find the nearest bar.”

“Dean…” Sam’s voice was tired.

“Dude, we’re broke,” Dean pointed out, “And it’s too risky to get new cards. So unless your newfound Prohibition-era sensibilities would like to starve, we need to go hustle some pool.”

Sam scowled, “Prohibition-era, Dean, really?”

“You’re the one with the aversion to alcohol lately,” Dean countered.

“I have an aversion to alcohol _ism_ , Dean.”

Dean ignored the jab. “I’m going to go hustle some pool, and if you want to come watch my back, great. If not, it’s your fault if I have to kick people’s asses.”

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. When Dean put it like that…

“Fine,” he said tightly, “But we’re not looking for any trouble.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

*

The first hour they spent in the bar had been trouble free, much to Sam’s relief. They collected about $500 off of a pair of drunken frat boys and decided with an exchanged look to call it a night.

But that was when things had gone south. Dean had gone to the bar and taken seven shots in quick succession before coming back with a beer for himself, and one for Sam.

Now he was gone again, and Sam had no idea where he was. He pushed his way to the bar, only to discover that Dean wasn’t there either.

“Did you ever wonder why he’s the older brother?” Lucifer asked, perching his chin on Sam’s shoulder, “It’s probably because you’re shit at taking care of people.”

Sam shoved him away and ordered some shots of his own.

*

Dean stumbled drunkenly into the last stall in the men’s bathroom, dragging the pretty brunette he’d met at the bar after him. She giggled and shoved him against the wall, kissing him hard, her tongue in his mouth.

“I feel so cliché,” the girl giggled, looking up at him with wide, brown eyes, “Sex in a bar bathroom. Really.”

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Dean murmured against her throat, “C’mom, er…”

The girl leveled a look at him, eyebrow raised, “You already forgot my name?”

Dean laughed, and there was a hysterical edge to it, “I don’t think I even heard it when you told me the first time,” he slurred, “And I really don’t give a shit, either. I just would rather think about anything than my life right now, so…”

Dean was drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He waited for the inevitable slap, gasp, stomp-out combo, but it never came. Instead the girl pressed further against him, her nails scraping along his arms.

“You’d rather anything than your life right now, huh, Dean?” she growled. He pulled back, startled at the use of his name just as she dug her nails into his forearm, hard enough to draw blood, “I bet I can fix that for you.” Her fingers were tracing patterns in his blood and he stared at her, reflexes slowed by drink and bewilderment.

She grinned and her eyes flickered black. “Let me help you out, Winchester.”

It was the sight of her eyes that forced him back to reality, and into action. He reversed their positions so quickly she didn’t even have time to shriek and then went for Ruby’s knife, strapped to his leg.

“I don’t need anybody’s help, you bitch,” he snarled, and stabbed her. The demon moaned a little, her host’s puppy dog brown eyes going wide as she spasmed and then collapsed.

Dean shoved away from the body and back out into the bar, barely having the wherewithal to shove the bloody knife into his jacket pocket. He saw Sam at the bar and grabbed his shoulder. His brother tensed and swung around, prepared to fight, but stopped when he saw it was Dean.

“Dean…” he took in the blood down Dean’s arm, and on his jacket, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

He half dragged Dean out of the bar, earning some catcalls from some drunk twenty-somethings who didn’t seem to have noticed that Dean was covered in blood.

“What the hell happened?” Sam demanded as soon as he’d safely deposited his brother in the passenger seat of the Impala.

“I almost got laid by a demon,” Dean scowls, “What does it look like happened, Sam? I guess I just don’t have the sway with demon ladies that you do.”

“Dean!” Sam kind of felt like he’d been punched, even after all this time, but he shook it off. Dean’d always been something of a belligerent drunk, “Did you take care of her? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” he snapped, “Of course I took care of the bitch.”

“Well,” Sam said, trying to sound light, “At least that case is taken care of.”

“Like I said,” Dean groused, “Open and shut.”

After all, at this point it really couldn't get worse, could it?


	2. Chapter 2

As a rule, Heaven’s punishment is usually worse than Hell’s. This is because of the simple fact that being in Hell is generally considered to be punishment enough all on its own.

So when everything had come to a head in Lower Tadfield due to the Almost-pocalypse, the forces of both Heaven and Hell were both looking for someone to punish for its failure. In a shocking moment of agreement, they had fixed themselves on Crowley the demon and Aziraphale the angel. (To be fair, it  _had_  been partially their fault the Apocalypse had failed.) Each force had taken their respective being with the intent to punish them severely.

But Crowley, being a demon, was well-versed in the art deceit. He pointed out the Anti-Christ, the son of Satan himself, had been the one to stop the Apocalypse and that Satan had, in fact, conceded to this and allowed the Earth to remain intact. He also convinced his fellow demons that his relationship with the angel Aziraphale was purely manipulative and that he had been trying to get the angel to fall, rather than joining forces with him as it had seemed. In light of all this evidence, the forces of Hell were obligated to release Crowley with a pat on the back rather than shackling him in red-hot irons.

(The author must take this opportunity to point out that the forces of hell were not the brightest bulbs in the box.)

Aziraphale did not fare as well. It was unclear precisely what part of the whole mess the forces of Heaven were most upset about—befriending a demon, or stopping the Apocalypse. (As a rule, angels are stuck up and intentionally enigmatic.) They dragged poor Aziraphale back to Heaven without so much as a how-do-you-do and locked him up in a tastefully furnished parlor. Michael himself sealed the door, warning Azriaphale that he would not be allowed to come out until he had thought about what he had done. (Michael was the oldest of Aziraphale’s siblings and he had a terrible complex about it.)

Aziraphale was in a terrible state. There were no films, no books, and possibly worst of all, no Crowley to complain to (though he would never admit that, even under torture.)

That was in 1990 A.D., in human years. Being an angel, Aziraphale had lived for all of the years up to that point and, generally speaking, something like a human year would positively fly by for an angel, who was used to those sorts of things by now.

But Aziraphale had been living on Earth for a long while, experiencing years more like a human would. And he wasn’t left in his plush prison for one year. He was left for twenty-two.

Even for an angel, twenty-two years is a terribly long time if you have nothing to do. The only thing that kept him from complete despair was taking Crowley’s advice and using sleep to pass the time. He remembered how the demon had slept through practically the entire nineteenth century. It had been a very boring time for Aziraphale.

So Aziraphale tried sleeping, and pacing, and reciting poetry to himself. He was trying to find a comfortable position on the divan one day when the parlor door swung open.

“Who’s there?” he asked, cautiously. He’d had no news of any kind for the last twenty-two years, so he wasn’t certain what might be going on outside, “Michael?”

Whoever was lurking outside the door snorted, “You  _have_  been out of the loop, haven’t you, Az?”

Aziraphale frowned. The voice sounded terribly familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “If you aren’t Michael, how did you get the door open? He sealed it, you know.”

He had. The first few days of his imprisonment, Aziraphale had spent all of his time trying to break the door down, to no avail. Michael was much stronger than he was.

“Just because you can’t break Michael’s seal,” the voice said loftily, “Doesn’t mean I can’t. Now come on out of there, the world needs your help again. Unless you’d like to stay rotting.”

Aziraphale saw the sensibility in this plan rather quickly, and stepped out of the parlor. Whoever had freed him was already gone. What curious circumstances. And what did he mean, the world needs your help?

There was another, rather pressing problem. When Michael had dragged him back to Heaven for an extended time-out, he had also stripped Aziraphale of his corporeal form. (Which was a great shame—Aziraphale had rather liked that shape.) Without a corporeal form, there was no simple way for him to travel on Earth.

Aziraphale sighed. He was going to have to find a vessel. Even if the world didn’t need saving, there was no chance he was going to stay here for Michael to find. Besides, he had missed far too many dinner dates with an old friend.

*

The morning after Dean killed the demon, Sam was awoken abruptly by a high-pitched yelp. He was out of bed, knife in hand before he realized that Dean was not in his bed and the noise had come from the bathroom.

“Dean?” he said cautiously, “Are you okay in there?”

“I…” Dean’s voice sounded funny and high through the bathroom door, “I’m not going to freak out, I’m not, I’m not…oh my GOD!”

The bathroom door opened and there was Dean.

Or…presumably it was Dean. He seemed to have shrunk about six inches…and developed curves…and breasts.

“Holy fuck,” Sam said.

“I’m a fucking girl!” shrieked Dean. Thankfully, he had had the presence of mind to wrap a towel around his body, but it didn’t do much to hide the fact that Dean was, in fact, a girl.

Unsurprisingly, the look worked for him. Dean was gorgeous at the worst of times, so it made sense that suddenly getting small and curvy would just highlight all of those attributes. His hair had stayed short, but his green eyes looked wider and his eyelashes were ridiculously long. His lips, which Sam knew Dean hated, were even fuller and perfectly bowed.

“Um,” said Sam.

“I’m a fucking girl!” Dean repeated, his voice climbing even higher in hysteria.

“Your brother is a pretty sexy girl,” Lucifer commented offhandedly from where he was leaning on the windowsill, “I could see how someone would want to do unspeakable things to him.”

“Oh my God, this is so not the time,” Sam snarled, shooting him a dark glare.

Dean’s wide unfocused gaze narrowed in on him suddenly, “You okay, Sammy?” Trust Dean to cut his own personal crisis short to check on his little brother.

“Dude, are you seriously asking me that?” Sam said, managing to sound light-hearted, “You turned into a girl!”

“Oh my God, I’m a girl!” Dean yelped again. He was clutching the edge of his towel so tightly that his hands were turning white, “How did this happen?”

“It had to have been that demon,” Sam considered, “What did she say to you?”

“She was just talking shit,” Dean answered, still shaking, “She didn’t say any spells or anything…” he trailed off, “But she did scratch the fuck out of my arm.”

Sam winced. “Blood magic,” he muttered, “Well, fuck. Did you clean it off already?”

Dean held out his arm, “No, I was just getting into the shower when I discovered that _I’m a fucking girl_. Do you really think I went ahead and showered before the panic attack?”

“Let me see,” Sam instructed, stepping forward.

“Kinky,” murmured Lucifer. Sam ignored him and took Dean’s arm.

“I just thought it was just smudges,” Dean told him, looking up at him through his ridiculous girl eyelashes.

“You were drunk and stupid,” Sam said simply, studying the markings drawn in Dean’s blood, “I don’t recognize any of this.”

Dean’s eyes widened, “So, what, you don’t know how to fix it?”

“Jesus, Dean, I’m not a freaking witchcraft encyclopedia,” he snapped, “I need to do some research, or ask--” He stopped abruptly.

Dean coughed. “I should go clean this off,” he said lamely.

“Yeah, and put some damn clothes on,” Sam tried to tease him, “It’s not ladylike to run around naked like that.”

Dean scowled and vanished back into the bathroom and Sam dropped down onto the bed with a sigh.

They were really, truly alone on this one.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was quickly discovering how unpleasant dealing with Dean as a girl could be, and it started immediately when his older brother reemerged from the bathroom. 

Dean was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, but the outlook wasn’t good. The jeans were too long and bunched around his ankles, covering his feet completely. From the way he kept tugging at the waistband, Sam suspected they were too loose around the waist as well.

The t-shirt collar was loose and low around his suddenly skinny neck and collarbone and the hem fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves billowing comically around his arms.

Sam’s study continued until he realized that the only place the t-shirt did seem to cling to Dean’s frame was around his breasts and then he realized he was staring at Dean’s nipples and his brain ground to a halt.

“We need to get you some clothes that fit,” he declared.

Dean pursed his lips, “What, girl clothes? I’m not wearing any girly clothes.”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, “Your clothes don’t even fit and I can see your boobs through that shirt.”

“Dude! You’re looking at my boobs!” Dean crossed his arms protectively across his chest, and then seemed to realize what he was doing and leered, “They’re nice aren’t they?” 

“Oh my God Dean.” 

“What?” Dean protested, “I’m allowed to look at my own boobs.”

“I really wish that was a sentence I never had to hear from you,” Sam groaned, “Come on, we’re going to go find you clothes that fit properly.” 

Dean scowled at him, though the effect was rather ruined by his oversized clothing. “I hate my life,” he said, matter-of-factly.

The worst part was, Sam wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t serious. “C’mon,” he said, “Let’s just go find you something appropriate to wear.”

Dean grumbled a few choice words under his breath, but stomped off to put on his coat and boots. 

*

The trip to Wal-Mart was an unmitigated disaster, from the first step out the motel room door. Dean insisted on driving, even though he had to scoot to the very edge of the bench to even reach the pedals properly. The seven minutes it took to get to Wal-Mart may as well have been an hour to Sam, who winced every time Dean hit the breaks too suddenly.

When they got into the store, Dean kept tripping over his own too-big boots, cursing loudly every time. It earned the ire of every little old lady, and the attention of every burly asshole. More than once, Sam had to resist the urge to deck one of the creeps. 

“Dean, just come on, we’ll get you shoes in a minute, let’s just get you a bra first, okay?”

“Oh my God, this is the worst day ever.” Dean deadpanned, stumbling in his boots again. 

Sam wisely decided not to mention all of their other “worst days ever.” 

After some wandering, they finally found the lingerie section. They stood, side by side, surveying the seemingly endless racks of frilly, weirdly patterned underwear for a long moment before Dean finally spoke up. 

“Do you even know how bra sizes work?” 

Sam arched an eyebrow at him, “What, you don’t, Mister Anything-With-Boobs?” 

Dean shrugged helplessly, “I mostly know how to remove the damn things. You’re the one who was all domestic and shit.” He was staring straight ahead, but Sam could see a muscle in his jaw jumping. 

“Uh…” Sam hesitated, face burning. “I mean, I know what size bra Jess wore…but, er, your boobs are…bigger than hers were.” In his peripheral vision, he could see that Dean’s face was turning pink under his freckles, so at least he wasn’t alone in his mortification. 

“We need help,” Dean decided, “Is there a chart around here or something?” 

Before they could even begin to look, a middle-aged woman in a blue vest appeared out of nowhere, eyeing them critically. “Is there anything I can help you with?” she asked in a voice that suggested that she’d rather have her fingernails forcibly removed. 

“She probably thinks you’re going to steal something,” Lucifer pointed out, and Sam grit his teeth, “I mean, you look like a couple of bums. Dean makes a sexy bum, though.”

“Our house burned down,” Sam blurted out, desperate to drown out Lucifer and ignoring the shock on Dean’s face. It vaguely occurred to him that he could have chosen a better excuse, “Um…”

“I’m sorry?” the employee said, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. 

“There was a fire. We lost all of our things, and my sister needs replacement…uh…under…clothes.” Beside him, Dean snorted, having recovered from his brother’s impulse lie. Sam gave the lady his best puppy-dog look, “Could you help us out?”

The sales lady’s expression immediately transformed into one of sympathy. “Oh no! I’m so sorry to hear that, let me help you, dear!” Before Dean could react, she had caught his arm in hers and was sweeping him away into the racks of lingerie. His older brother had just enough time to shoot Sam a panicked look, eyes widened comically before he was dragged out of view. 

Ten minutes later, Dean reemerged with an armful of bras and panties. He dumped them into the cart Sam had found. “Being a girl sucks,” he said, “It took me like five minutes to get one of the damn things on.” He tugged at it experimentally, ignoring the disapproving stare of an elderly shopper nearby.

“We’re not done yet, Dean,” Sam reminded him, “We still need to get you clothes and shoes.”

“Why can’t I just wear my normal clothes?” Dean demanded, “I’m not wearing a fuckin’ Justin Beiber shirt, Sam!” 

“I didn’t say you had to,” Sam said placatingly, “But you can hardly walk in those boots and if you have to run, you’ll trip over your own pant legs. We don’t know how long it might take us to reverse this.” 

Dean groaned, “Why does this shit always happen to us? Why can’t it ever happen to anyone else?” 

Sam wanted to give a good answer, but he didn’t think there was one. He smiled instead. “Hey, I think there were some Zeppelin t-shirts in the juniors’ section.” 

*

They had lunch at the diner across the street after they finished shopping, Sam surfing the ‘net for leads while mollifying Dean with a cheeseburger and a slice of pie. He was still grumpy, but Sam couldn’t fault him for that.

“So,” he said, after he was sure that Dean wasn’t going to blow up on him, “What all do you remember from last night? It might be important to figuring out how to reverse this.”

Dean shrugged his thin shoulders, “Man, I dunno, she just kind of mocked me for having suck a miserable life, scratched the hell out of my arm and went all dark eyes and I ganked the bitch. Conversation couldn’t have lasted three minutes.” He dropped his fork and studied his hands, “Dude, I don’t even know if I can hold a shotgun like this!” 

Sam didn’t even glance up from the laptop. “Yeah, if you’re like that very long, we’re probably going to have to retrain you. No way you could take anyone in hand-to-hand.”

Dean pouted. “Yeah, well we can’t all be Gigantor, can we?” 

“I’m thinking we should head to Springfield,” Sam said, ignoring the jab, “It’s about an hour from here, but they have a pretty expansive system of libraries. We might be able to find out how to reverse the blood magic.”

“Man, first I get turned into a chick and now I have to spend my whole day researching? How are we ever gonna get that bastard Dick Roman if we’re chasing leads on this?” 

“Maybe that’s what it’s about,” suggested Sam, “Maybe the demon was in league with the Leviathan.”

“It’d have to be a loner,” Dean pointed out, “Crowley freakin’ hated the dude.”

“Anyway, there’s no way we’re going after Roman right now,” Sam continued, when it became evident that Dean was going to suggest just that, “You said it yourself, you can’t even shoot a shotgun in this body, let alone take down a bunch of things we don’t even know how to kill yet.”

“What about those numbers?” Dean persisted, “We have to figure out what they are! Bobby--” he cut himself off with a faint choking sound, “Sam, it’s important.” 

“I know it is, Dean, but dammit, we aren’t going to go running off after God-knows-what with you in this state!” 

“Are you talking about the curves or the death wish?” Lucifer asked blithely from the inside of the booth. Sam’s eyes flicked to him, but he refrained a returning comment. Looking back at Dean, though, he saw it had been no good, his brother was too well-versed in the language that was Sam to have missed it.

“Yeah, you’re going all Tyler Durden on me over here, but mine is the state we’re worrying about.” 

“I’m handling it,” Sam said firmly, “And that doesn’t change my mind. We’re going to Springfield and Dick Roman can wait.” Before Dean could argue, he stood up and tossed some bills on the table. 

“Come on. We’re burning daylight.”


	4. Chapter 4

It didn’t take Aziraphale long once he was released from his plush prison to realize that something was terribly wrong. He descended from Heaven, faster than blinking, intangible as a thought, and immediately noticed how very still everything seemed.

(Angels, when incorporeal, have an instinctual awareness of other nearby angels. It has to be that way, obviously, since the majority of angels feel restricted by corporeal forms, and the choice of human vessel is limited. There would be far too many traffic accidents in Heaven if angels were as invisible to one another as they are to us.)

Aziraphale was concerned. He knew it had been one of his siblings that had released him, but neither he, nor any of the other angels seemed to be nearby. (Nearby, by angelic standards is a lot further than our nearby.) His mysterious helper had told him that the world was in trouble again and he wondered for the first time, whether this trouble was deeper than he had initially thought.

With a thought, he was in London, on the street outside of his bookshop. An elderly man jumped as he arrived, looking about as if he sensed Aziraphale’s presence. The angel approached him cautiously.

 _“Excuse me,”_ he said, _“I’m sure you have things you want to be doing, but I’m terribly inconvenienced right now, and I was wondering if I could borrow you, for a tic?”_

“My God,” the old man said.

 _“Not quite,”_ Aziraphale corrected, _“But I’d be obliged nonetheless.”_

The man crossed himself and rattled off a short prayer in Latin. “Of course, good sir, of course!”

 _“Thanks ever so much.”_ Aziraphale said considerately, slipping into the man’s psyche. He strode up to the bookshop and opened the door. A quick peek confirmed that everything was fine inside, and that, as he had hoped, no humans had noticed the shop while he’d been away. Terribly unobservant, the dears.

Reassured, he stepped out of the doorway and into the hallway outside of Crowley’s flat. The man, whose name was Horace, stumbled a little at the sudden change of location.

“Blimey,” he gasped, “It’s like Harry Potter.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what that was, so he just stepped up to the door and knocked, sharply.

A few moments passed and a middle-aged woman opened the door a crack, eyeing him/them suspiciously. “What?”

 _“Sorry to be a bother, madam,”_ said Aziraphale politely, _“But what’s happened to the last tenant?”_

She shrugged, “A couple of marrieds lived here before me, couldn’t make the rent. I got the place on a bargain.”

 _“But…what about before that?”_ Aziraphale said, slightly bewildered, _“Do you know an Anthony Crowley?”_

“Never heard of him.”

“Oh dear,” said Horace, “It looks like your friend’s gone and moved without reminding you.”

 _“So it would seem,_ ” Aziraphale agreed, _“Most perplexing.”_

The woman in the doorway gave him/them an odd look and apparently came to the conclusion that politeness was unnecessary now that the old man was talking to himself, and she shut the door in his/their face.

“Well that was quite rude,” Horace sniffed.

 _“I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm,”_ Aziraphale said kindly, _“I just wish I knew where Crowley had gotten off too.”_

The woman across the hall was just coming out of her apartment, and she stopped short at his words. “You’re looking for Crowley?” she said disbelievingly.

 _“Yes, I am.”_ Aziraphale answered, _“I can’t imagine where the old devil’s gone.”_

“About yea tall?” she asked, “Wears sunglasses indoors, yells at his plants, listens to a lot of that Freddie Mercury fellow?”

 _“That’s him,”_ confirmed the angel.

“Why, he moved away twenty years ago,” she said, with some surprise, “To America, I think.”

“America!” Horace exclaimed, “Why that’s much too far from home for my comfort!”

 _“Oh dear,”_ said Aziraphale, _“I wonder what he’s doing there?”_

The woman shrugged. “He seemed pretty unhappy when he left,” she confided, her voice low, “I’d thought maybe it was one of those things where you have a bad break-up and you do something drastic to take your mind off it.”

“Well, I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” said Horace, “But I don’t think I ought to go to America today. It’s rather out of my way, and the missus is making dinner as we speak.”

 _“I certainly understand, my good fellow,”_ Aziraphale said graciously, _“You’ve been incredibly helpful. And thank you, miss, for that information.”_

The woman nodded, seemingly unfazed by the two vastly different voices the old man was emitting. “It’s quite a gesture, following him all the way to America,” she said, “Very romantic. Like _Made of Honor_.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what that meant, and he was started to get tired of references he didn't understand, but he nodded, Horace’s lips twitching into a smile. _“Thank you both, very much. I must be going.”_

Horace steadied himself against the wall as the angel departed. “What an interesting day it’s been,” he said to the woman, conversationally.

Aziraphale didn’t stay to hear any more. He had a new destination in mind. Off to America.

*

The library in Springfield did have one thing going for it, and that was the coffee/sandwich shop at the front. Sam saw Dean’s expression as they walked in, and he rolled his eyes and headed into the stacks without another word.

Dean strolled up to the counter and gave the cashier a flirty smile. She didn’t look particularly impressed, and Dean remembered that he was a girl and changed the wattage from _how-you-doin’_ to _isn’t-it-a-lovely-day._

The cashier warmed up, then, smiling. “What can I get for you?”

“Can I get…a medium coffee--black, a medium caramel macchiato, and a slice of that apple pie?”

“That’ll be $12.85,” she said, punching it into the computer. He handed her one of the cards from his wallet and her eyebrows went up, “Steve Walsh?”

“Oh,” Dean realized, a moment too late, that he really couldn’t pass for a Steve, “It’s my…” he gestured uselessly in the direction Sam had disappeared, “Hang on, I’ll just use cash.” He started to dig in his wallet again.

“I can get that for you, sweetheart,” a voice behind him murmured and Dean stiffened.

The guy who stepped up behind him was fairly tall and burly, and he looked like trouble. Not so much that Dean would’ve been intimidated in a normal situation. But this was everything but normal, he reminded himself, looking up at the guy from his suddenly demure five feet, five inches.

“I’m fine,” he said coolly, “Thanks.”

The guy put his hand on Dean’s shoulder, “No, I insist.” His tone seemed warm, but the way his hand tightened indicated otherwise.

“Let go of me,” Dean said sharply. The barista’s eyes flicked nervously between the two of them and she opened her mouth and closed it several times. 

The man didn’t reply, just tightened his grip further, his fingers digging into Dean’s shoulder and Dean was just seconds away from throwing himself into a fight he couldn’t possibly win when an another hand came down on the guy’s own shoulder.

“Leave her alone,” Sam said, his voice thick with anger. The guy took a moment to size him up and apparently came to the foolish conclusion that he could take him.

“What, this your girlfriend?” he sneered, “I’m real scared.”

“You should be,” Sam said darkly, and then he moved.

It was over in a second, the man sprawled flat on the floor, with Sam’s boot in the middle of his chest, blood running freely from his nose. Sam leaned down into the guy’s face, his voice low and threatening. “When a person says ‘leave me alone,’ you’d better fucking leave them alone, okay?” He ground his boot forcefully into the guy’s sternum for a moment longer and then stepped away. “C’mon, Dean, let’s get out of here.”

Dean didn’t need telling twice. He scampered off after Sam, leaving the guy gasping on the floor and the barista staring after them in disbelief.

“Uh…Sammy?” Dean said cautiously, jogging a little to keep up with his brother, “Not that I don’t appreciate you defending my honor and stuff, but how are we supposed to do any research now?”

“There’s more than one library in this town,” Sam said tersely, “We’ll figure it out.”

Dean thought about asking Sam if he was okay, if his rage was about more than just the creep in the library, if he was still seeing Lucifer, if there was anything that Dean could do to help.

But Sam was glowering and Dean was a Winchester. Female or not, he still didn’t do chick-flick moments. Instead, he just slid into the passenger seat of the Impala with a smirk.

“Well, you better stop on the way and get me some coffee, bitch. Your macho man act in there lost me my caffeine!”

Sam smiled grimly at that, but it was a smile, and for now Dean figured it would have to do.


	5. Chapter 5

America was not what Aziraphale expected it to be. Everything he knew about it, really, came from books and films. And the films, especially, seemed to be under the impression that it was a massive continent, empty in the middle, and bustling with cities on the coasts. It turned out that wasn’t the case at all. 

Aziraphale was in Chicago because it had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it was slightly overwhelming. He seemed to have manifested somewhere in the heart of downtown. Cars whizzed by and buildings climbed high out of sight, the sun glinting off their windows. And there were people everywhere: people with cameras, and brown paper bags full of food, people leading children by the hand, (or by the leash, which was disconcerting), people arguing, people singing, people checking their phones. There were even a group of young men rapping out some beat on upside down buckets down at the street corner. 

Even in the midst of all the humanity, he was having less luck finding a vessel than he had hoped. Of the few people that shone brightly enough, most reacted to his voice with fear or downright aggression. One woman had stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk and dug through her purse for a handful of multicolored pills, shaking as she dry-swallowed them and marched away. 

Overall, the angel was quite discouraged. How on Earth was he supposed to find a vessel--and Crowley—in such a wide country?

 _“You could always try Springfield, Missouri,”_ someone said. Aziraphale spun around (as much as an intangible being can spin around, anyway) and saw a little old lady clutching her handbag and staring him down.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, a little flummoxed, “What’s in this Springfield place?”

The little woman drew herself up to her full height and Aziraphale got the impression of massive dark wings behind her.

“You again!” he accused, “Who are you and what is this all about?”

The old woman smiled a little. _“That much is irrelevant right now,”_ she told him, _“The important thing is that you get to Springfield. Find the Winchesters and you’ll have everything you need.”_

“Winchesters?” Aziraphale repeated. The name sounded so familiar. “The demon hunters from the Gospel? I don’t understand.”

 _“There’s not really time right now, okay?”_ The woman said, _“Just trust me on this. Springfield, Missouri. You’ll find the Winchesters there.”_

“How can I possibly trust you? I don’t even know who you are!” Aziraphale protested, but it was too late. The little old woman was blinking back confusion. The angel had gone. 

Aziraphale bit back his irritation. He very badly wanted to swear, or to throw something, or something equally drastic. But this sibling—whoever they were—had helped him before, and it was really his best lead. Springfield, Missouri it was. 

*

When Sam opened up the door to his and Dean’s room at the American Inn, the first thing he noticed was Dean’s pile of research books, untouched on the table in the corner. The second thing he noticed was that the pile of blankets on the bed nearest the door appeared to be breathing.

“Dean, what are you doing?” He asked, his voice falling somewhere between berating and cajoling. “I’ve been gone for the last half hour, have you seriously not looked at any of those books?”

Dean’s head popped out from under the blankets. “Did you bring food?” he demanded, “My stomach is killing me.” 

“That is why I left, Dean,” Sam answered, starting to get annoyed, “Why haven’t you looked at any of this research? Do you want to be a girl forever?”

“Hell no!” Dean protested, “I just want food.” 

Sam gave his best long-suffering sigh and tossed a greasy paper bag at Dean. He caught it and sniffed at it suspiciously. “Dude, everything smells weird.” 

“Different hormones make different senses react…differently.” Sam said, snagging one of the books off the pile and flopping down on his bed, “Girls have stronger senses of smell, generally speaking.”

“Weird,” Dean said through a mouthful of burger, “I don’t like it.”

“I seriously doubt there’s much of anything about this that you like,” Sam pointed out. “Don’t say ‘boobs,’ either,” he added when Dean started to open his mouth. 

“Spoilsport.” 

“There isn’t a lot of lore on body swapping, or gender swapping or whatever this is,” Sam commented from behind his book, “It’s going to take some serious research to figure this one out.” Dean made a displeased noise, but Sam didn’t even look up, “I know man, but I don’t know how this happened. It could be a spell, or a cursed object, or any number of things.” 

“Man, I’m gonna be stuck as a girl forever!” Dean groaned, balling up the paper bag and chucking it at Sam’s head.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sam said, reaching for another book, “I’m gonna figure it out.”

“Aww, Sammy, your obsession with damsels in distress just warms my heart.”

“Maybe you can look at this as an experience,” Sam suggested with a sly grin, “You’re finally learning what women deal with all the time. Might make you a better person.”

“Doubtful.” Dean said, “I don’t think there’s any womanly experience that could…” he trailed off, a maniacal gleam coming into his eyes. “Oh.”

Sam finally looked up from his books. “What are you going on about… _oh_.”

Dean grinned at him. 

“Jesus, Dean, no.” Sam said, “Why are you even thinking about that?”

“It’s not like I swapped bodies with someone else…this is all mine.” Dean argued, his grin growing, “It would be criminal not to take it out for a test run.”

Sam’s felt all the blood rush to his face and he felt a little bit lightheaded. “God, Dean.”

“Well.” Dean clambered to his feet, “I’m gonna go take a shower.” He flounced past Sam, shutting the door with a snap. 

For a moment that stretched on to forever, Sam stayed frozen, trying to decide whether or not to stay. As soon as he realized he was actually considering staying, and that the heat in his face had relocated to somewhere far more personal, he was on his feet and sweeping out the door, keys already in hand, resolved not to return until it was dark and Dean was (hopefully) asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean was standing knee-deep in a grimy pond...again. As usual, he was clutching that stupid trucker cap and a trench coat and he was completely and utterly alone. In fact, the only thing about the situation that wasn't typical was his very feminine body. Trust his subconscious to go ahead and remind him of his real life problems in an already unpleasant dream. 

"I beg your pardon?" a voice behind him said tentatively. 

Dean whipped around, hand going automatically for a weapon he didn't have. "What the hell?" 

The man he had turned to face looked mildly affronted, which, Dean supposed, made sense, considering that he looked like a very gay, very British librarian rather than the spawn of hell that Dean had been imagining. 

"Are you Dean Winchester?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Do you make a habit of popping into people's subconsciouses without knowing who they are?"

"I'm looking for the Winchesters," the blond sniffed, "Perhaps you'd be easier to locate if you weren't switching genders and confusing everyone." 

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Dean exclaimed, "Besides, who says we wanted to be found?"

"All evidence points to the contrary," the man agreed, "But I need your help."

Dean stepped away. "Who are you?"

"My name is Aziraphale." he answered.

"Aziraphale." Dean repeated flatly, "That's a rather angelic sounding name."

He nodded, looking pleased. "I'd heard you Winchesters were clever."

"Right," said Dean, "Get out of here."

Aziraphale frowned. "Sorry?" 

"Get out of my head," Dean growled, "Now."

"But I need your help," the angel said, "You've dealt with my brothers and sisters before, haven't you?"

"Oh yeah," Dean agreed, "And every single one was a feathery asshole with an ulterior motive." He dropped the trench coat and turned to walk away. He felt kind of stupid, slogging through the pond and clutching a baseball cap, but the angel didn't say anything. After a moment, Dean realized he had, despite all attempts to walk in the opposite direction, ended up back where he had started, facing Aziraphale. And damn it all if he couldn't blame anyone but his own subconscious.

The angel bent down and fished the trench coat out of the water. He held it gingerly for a moment before he looked up at the hunter. "What happened to Castiel? 

Dean's expression darkened, like shutters going up behind his eyes. "You're a little behind on the times, huh?" 

"I've been...captive." the angel answered, "Michael imprisoned me for over twenty of your years." 

Dean looked at him then, with real interest. "Dude, you've been on angelic lockdown for twenty years? What for? Does that mean you missed everything that's been going on?"

"I was completely cut off from everything." Aziraphale confirmed. 

"Then how do you know about me and Sam?" Dean asked, suspicious again.

Aziraphale sighed. "He works in mysterious ways," he answered cryptically, "There are a few special humans that have been part of the Ineffable Plan since The Beginning. You and your brother are such people." 

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm really tired of angels telling me I'm special."

"This must be why I was freed," the angel mused, "You Winchesters are tied to the Apocalypse."

Dean flapped a hand at him. "Ugh, don't remind me. I'd just as soon forget it ever happened." 

"Happened?" 

"Yeah, we stopped it." Dean answered. His paused, a proud sort of smile on his face. "Sammy stopped it." 

"Again?" Aziraphale sounded shocked. 

Dean looked askance at him. "Dude, just the once. How many times do you dicks expect a person to stop the Apocalypse?" 

"No, it's the second almost-Apocalypse." Aziraphale rushed to explain, "The last time it almost happened was in Lower Tadfield, in England. Adam stopped Lucifer from rising."

"Adam?" Dean said, bewildered, "You lost me, Az."

"Michael imprisoned me for helping the Antichrist stop the Apocalypse."

"The Antichrist?" Dean looked confused, "Jesse wasn't alive twenty years ago."

"Adam," Aziraphale corrected, "He was actually Lucifer's progeny. Jesse was half-human, half-demon with the potential to break one of the seals. Adam was powerful enough to bypass seals entirely, but he chose not to."

"You're seriously telling me two separate Antichrists chose not to be evil? That's comforting, considering that all you angels are gung-ho for Armageddon."

"I'm _not_ , I told you," Aziraphale said irritably. "I'll remind you I spent twenty years as a prisoner because I was not 'gung-ho' about 'Armageddon.'" He flashed air quotes at Dean, remembering fondly the time Crowley had taught him that particular human-ism. 

Dean was watching him with a strange expression on his face. "You're a lot like Cas," he muttered, more to himself than to the angel. 

"What happened to Castiel?" Aziraphale repeated then, remembering where the conversation had gotten off track.

"Dean, dude, wake up!" Dean jerked awake as a pillow hit him in the face. "You planning on sleeping the whole day away?" 

"'M not a dude right now." Dean pointed out blearily, without opening his eyes. Sam snorted.

"You say that like I could possibly forget." He sounded like he was right next to the bed, so Dean reached blindly in that direction until Sam shoved a paper cup into his hands. Dean made a happy noise and Sam sighed. "You're impossible." 

Dean took a deep swig of coffee before opening his eyes to grin cheekily up at his brother. "You love it." 

Sam looked at him with an incomprehensible expression, and then rubbed his nose and looked away. "You were talking in your sleep," he said finally, "About Cas." 

Dean nodded. "An angel showed up in here," he tapped his temple, "Wanted our help." 

Sam looked alarmed. "How'd they find us? What does he want?"

"Dude, chill out, you're gonna give yourself an aneurysm and your screws are already loose enough as it is." Lucifer said, plopping down next to Dean on the bed. 

"Dude, chill out, you're gonna give yourself an aneurysm." Dean said. Sam flinched. "Hey, are you okay?" 

"Yeah, Sammy, you okay?" Lucifer echoed, wearing Dean's face. Sam gritted his teeth. 

"I'm fine." He lied. Dean didn't look convinced, so Sam kept talking. "Who was this angel?" 

"He said his name was Aziraphale," Dean answered, "Apparently he's been in solitary confinement in Heaven for two decades, had no idea what was going on down here."

Sam frowned. "Why was he on lockdown?"

"Yeah, here's the crazy part. Apparently the _Apocalypse_ was going to happen and he helped stop it." 

"You're telling me there have been two near-Apocalypses in as many decades?" Sam said disbelievingly. 

"What, you think the world revolves around you?" Lucifer-Dean sneered, "That's self absorbed, Sam, even for you." 

"--weird, I know, but he seemed to be telling the truth." Dean was talking, so Sam forced himself to pay attention. "He wanted our help."

"Help with what?" 

Dean shrugged. "You woke me up before he could say." 

"Way to go, genius." Lucifer added. Flames licked at Sam's boots. The leather caught fire and Sam caught the familiar smell of his own skin burning. 

"--research until then and if he still wants to talk to me, he'll be back tonight." Dean said. He smiled crookedly. "We already know they're persistent bastards." 

"What?" Sam said. His head was pounding and his legs were burning, covered in blisters.

Dean's brow furrowed. "You sure you're okay, Sammy?" 

"Uh, yeah, I--I just have a little bit of a headache." 

Lucifer laughed, reaching for him. "That excuse never stopped me before." Sam averted his eyes, resisting the urge to jerk away. 

"Let's just get you turned back to yourself before we worry about anything else." he suggested a little too loudly. 

For a long moment, Dean studied his face. Finally, he climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

"Don't _worry._ " Sam heard him say in an undertone. "Not freakin' likely." 

*

While the Winchesters dove into research at the library, Aziraphale did exactly what Sam had told Dean not to do: worried. Even at its most dull, his twenty year stint in Heaven hadn't seemed so indeterminable.

What had happened while he was gone? Where was Michael? What fate had befallen young Castiel? Though his heart told him otherwise, he hoped nothing too terrible had happened to his little brother--he was rather fond of Thursday's angel. 

Most pressingly, where was Crowley? He'd come to America, certainly, but what had happened in the years since? During the second Apocalypse? If Aziraphale had been corporeal, he would have wrung his hands. As it was, he just sort of fluttered in space, earning a confused glance in his direction from a library patron's toddler. 

A tiny ripple in reality was all the warning he got before his mysterious benefactor appeared. 

(Well, perhaps "appeared' is the wrong word, considering he was invisible, his identity well and truly cloaked from Aziraphale. That didn't stop the toddler from giving out a shriek as he sensed the new arrival.) 

_"You seem rather glum, Az."_

Aziraphale bristled. _"You neglected to tell me there'd been another Apocalypse in my absence."_

_"Almost-Apocalypse,"_ he corrected, _"Seals were broken, but Michael and Luci didn't get to throw down. And I didn't neglect to tell you, I deliberately didn't say anything."_

_"Why not?"_ Aziraphale demanded. 

The other being gave what might have been a shrug, if he'd had shoulders. _"I sent you to the Winchesters, figured you'd get filled in along the way."_

_"Well, they didn't explain much."_ Aziraphale grumbled.

 _Yeah, not the most communicative family,"_ agreed the other. 

_"That's a bit hypocritical, don't you think?"_ Aziraphale responded as sardonically as he could manage, _"And they don't want to help me, either."_

_"But they will!"_ exclaimed the other, _"They're literally incapable of leaving someone in need. But maybe don't mention the demon straight away, yeah? I mean, they are demon hunters."_

Aziraphale felt him withdrawing, like a cloud momentarily blotting out the sun. _"Wait!"_ But it was too late; he was alone once more.

Aziraphale sighed. This whole adventure was getting wildly out of hand. 

*

"Dean, I'm just saying, it might not be a bad idea!" Sam half-shouted, "We don't know if we can trust him!" 

"I can handle it by myself." Dean repeated stubbornly. 

"It's not like we're low on dream root, Dean. Why can't I come?"

"He doesn't trust you," Lucifer hissed, looking more snakelike than Sam had seen him look since he escaped hell. "He's afraid you'll fuck it up."

"I'm not going to fuck it up!" Sam snapped.

Dean looked completely bewildered. "Sammy, what're you talking about?" 

"You don't want me to take the dream root because you don't trust me in your brain." 

"No, Sam, I don't want you to take the dream root because I don't trust angels with _your_ brain." 

"What?"

"Look, Sammy, I think Aziraphale is trustworthy, but last time I thought that about an angel, he nearly killed you." His eyes darkened, "I'm not taking that chance again." 

"He's just trying to mollify you." Lucifer said. Sam didn't even spare him a glance. Dean's expression was so open and honest that it hurt Sam to look at him. Even when he wasn't completely himself, Dean was exactly the same as always; trying to protect Sam. 

"Okay." he said. Lucifer vanished with a growl. 

"Okay?" his brother repeated, a little stunned. "You're actually going to let this go?" 

"I promise I won't use the dream root to sneak into your subconscious." Sam said, and watched the tension ebb out of his brother's shoulders. 

"And no freaky psychic shit either!" Dean added with a grin. Sam laughed and it felt like the first time in weeks. 

"Not promising anything on that front." 

They ordered pizza for dinner and sat on Sam's bed, the box between them, watching a Star Wars marathon on cable. Sam spewed Mountain Dew out his nose from laughing too hard when Dean attempted to "I-am-your-father" along with James Earl Jones in his new soprano, and then got Dean all riled up over whether Han shot first. 

It was a good evening, and Lucifer didn't reappear once. Predictably, Dean fell asleep within minutes of the Ewoks' first appearance, sliding slowly down the headboard until his head was pillowed on Sam's shoulder. 

Sam could feel Dean breathing warmly against his neck and felt more comforted than he could remember feeling in a long time. He moved the pizza box to the floor and gingerly rested his head against Dean's. 

Within minutes, he was asleep too, and no one was left to witness the triumph of the Rebel Alliance over the Empire.


	7. Chapter 7

"I wouldn't hurt your brother." Aziraphale said conversationally before Dean even realized he was dreaming.

"Jesus, you gotta stop sneaking up on me like that!"

"I'm terribly sorry," the angel said sincerely, "I just couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Sam earlier and I wanted to reassure you."

"No offense, but I'd rather not take that chance." Dean said lightly, "Why are you hanging around like an invisible creeper, anyway?"

"Michael stripped me of my corporeal form." Aziraphale explained, his expression wistful.

"Like...you could look human without a vessel?" Dean raised his eyebrows, "And you went with holy librarian instead of Brad Pitt?"

"Most of the higher-tier angels can manage it--"

"If you big wig angels can just mojo yourselves human bodies, what was the big deal about me and Sam and Michael and Lucifer?" Dean demanded.

"We can't create them ourselves...He has to do that. And they're fallible. If you're like Raphael, you ruin them all the time. Once you lose it, it's gone, and you have to go back to vessels... unless He decides to restore it." Aziraphale explained.

Dean looked slightly mollified. "I would've probably had to kill you if you'd told me my brother took on freakin' Satan for no reason."

"Sam allowed Lucifer to possess him?" Aziraphale asked, eyes wide.

"I keep forgetting you missed everything." Dean said, "That’s how he stopped the Apocalypse. Sam said yes to Lucifer and then got back control and...jumped into the Cage." The angel looked astonished. "Isn't this all in your Winchester gospel or whatever crap Chuck was writing?"

Aziraphale nodded "But what you have to understand is that there are millions of parts to the Gospel and while they're all possible, not all of them actually happen. Prophesy runs on potential energy."

"That's how predestination and free will can exist in the same universe?" Dean asked, looking a little dazed. He had not signed up for theology conversations with angels during his dreams.

"Ineffable." the angel agreed. They shared a moment of silence, letting the magnitude of their conversation wash over them.

"Well, now that I've had enough philosophy to last a lifetime, tell me why you came looking for us in the first place." Dean finally said.

"Another angel sent me." Aziraphale told him.

Dean looked displeased at this information. "Who? There are hardly any of you left."

"What do you mean?"

Dean shrugged. "There was a civil war in Heaven after Sam stopped the Apocalypse. Some of the angels wanted to restart it."

"Michael?" Aziraphale guessed.

Dean shook his head. "He fell into the Cage with Lucifer. Raphael was heading the pro- Apocalypse side." He swallowed reflexively. "Castiel led the others."

Aziraphale sat down heavily on a park bench that had materialized out of Dean's dreamscape. "Why would Castiel take on an archangel? He couldn't possibly hope to win."

"Yeah," Dean said, guilt twisting his expression, "Well. People who fall in with us tend to wind up fighting for lost causes."

"What happened?" Aziraphale whispered, his face rapt. Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. "This is my family we're discussing. Tell me."

"Cas was losing. So he started working with this demon and opened Purgatory."

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "He took the souls?"

Dean nodded, finally sitting down next to the angel. "It made him crazy…and super powerful. He killed Raphael and all the angels aligned with him." Dean's expression turned ugly. "He nearly killed us and he knocked down the wall in Sam's mind that was keeping him from remembering his time in the Pit."

"Your brother remembers being in Hell with Michael and Lucifer?" Aziraphale's face was pale. "How is the poor boy even standing?"

Dean suddenly looked very tired. "I wish I knew. He says he's fine, but sometimes I look at him and he's not really there." He shook his head a little, as if to clear it. "Anyway, that's the short version of what's happening. Cas got freaked by the way the souls were making him feel, so he came to us for help."

"Did you help him?" Aziraphale couldn't help asking. He earned a hard glare for his trouble.

"Of course we did. Even if he hadn't been our friend at one point, we would have had to stop him." Dean studied his narrow hands, "And he was our friend, once."

"So all the souls were returned to Purgatory?" the angel said, changing the subject. He saw the corner of Dean's lip quirk up into what might have been a grateful smile, if he hadn't looked so sad.

"Not quite," he said, "Some of the souls were too powerful."

Aziraphale's eyes widened in understanding. "Leviathan."

Dean nodded gravely. "We've been trying to find a way to kill the bastards ever since, but they're everywhere and, as far as we can tell, pretty much unkillable."

Aziraphale swallowed the desire to ask what had become of Castiel. The look on Dean's face was answer enough. He felt a rush of grief as he remembered the first time he had seen his younger brother.

_"Don't step on that fish, Castiel. Big plans for that fish."_

"So now you know pretty much everything we do," Dean's voice cut through his thoughts, "Any idea what it all has to do with you being sent here?"

"The angel who freed me said the world was in danger," Aziraphale said, "And then he told me where to find you. Perhaps he wants us to face the threat together?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. It seems funny, though. All the angels who might have helped us wound up dead." His lips twisted into an approximation of a grin, but there was too much bitterness in his gaze for it to be genuine.

"Let me help you, Dean." Aziraphale said, "I'm looking for someone who might be able to help us, but I can't do it while incorporeal."

Dean jumped up from the bench, his expression turning instantly hostile. "You're just here for a vessel?" he hissed, "Sam was right; we can't trust any of you bastards!"

"I'm not here to hurt you, Dean, or your brother." Aziraphale protested, "Whoever freed me seemed to think we could help each other if we worked together."

"I'm not about to give up my free will to some asshat angel with God-only-knows-what on his agenda."

"I'm not Michael," Aziraphale pointed out, his voice level, "I have no intention of taking your freedom. I just want to be a passenger and I'll try to help you as much as I can."

Dean didn't look convinced. "Who are you looking for?" he demanded.

"An old friend, his name is..." Aziraphale hesitated, "...Anthony. He was with me in Lower Tadfield. He helped stop the Apocalypse then, he can help us now." The angel put all of his sincerity into his voice then, "But I cannot find him while I'm incorporeal. I promise you, my intentions are the purest."

Dean studied his face, still dubious, but without the open aggression from before. "What will you do if I say no?"

"I suppose I'll try to find someone else," he answered honestly, "Though I haven't had much luck on that front thus far."

"Augh!" Dean passed in front of him, tugging at his hair in exasperation. Aziraphale watched him calmly, belying the genuine anxiety he felt. Finally the hunter skidded to a stop and faced him.

"I have to talk to my brother first." he said, "We've had too much dishonesty between us in the past. Besides," he flashed the angel a razor-sharp grin, "If you are trying to take over the world or some shit, somebody had better know what to stab me with to stop you."

Aziraphale nodded his agreement, relieved. "Certainly. I'll be waiting next time you fall asleep." The angel pressed two fingers to Dean's temple and he jerked abruptly awake.

It was still dark outside and the television was still on, casting a whitish light as it displayed after-hours static. Dean blinked a couple times, trying to get his bearings. He usually wasn't so slow to wake up--as his dad had drilled into him from childhood, a slow hunter is a dead hunter--but considering he'd spent the whole time he was sleeping rehashing some of his worst memories, he figured he was justified. Besides, he felt so warm and safe...

It was about that moment that he realized that he was the little spoon to Sam's big spoon, his baby brother pressed flush to his back, shoulders to hips to knees. His arms were wrapped tightly around Dean's waist and his nose was buried in Dean's hair, sending a smattering of goosebumps down his older brother's neck every time he exhaled.

"It's like being cuddled by an octopus." Dean grumbled, shifting around until he was facing Sam. He felt tiny and soft against the hard planes of his brother's body, which only served to irritate him further. He put his tiny girl-hands on his brother's chest and shoved.

"Sam! Let go of me, Sasquatch!"

Sam's arms tightened reflexively at the same moment his eyes flew open and he cracked his forehead against Dean's.

"Ow." Dean said.

"Oh my God!" said Sam. He released Dean rolled off the bed and to his feet, lightning fast. "Dean, I'm sorry!"

"Dude, whatever." Dean rolled his eyes, rubbing at his temple. "It's not your fault I'm completely irresistable.

Sam's face flushed bright red. "You give yourself a lot of credit, bro. Good to know your ego didn't get damaged when you turned into a girl." He swept off to the bathroom, smirking, before Dean could even formulate a response, slamming the door behind him. Dean glanced over at the clock. The red digits glowed up at him; _3:45a._ He groaned and flopped back into the warm spot where his little brother had been moments before.

Sam was in the bathroom long enough that Dean was almost asleep again when he finally emerged, dressed in fresh clothes and toweling off his hair.

"Enjoy your shower, Sammy?" he said cheekily. Sam flushed again and flung his balled-up towel at Dean.

"Mind your own business." He flopped down on Dean's bed and pulled a pillow over his face.

"Hey! That's my bed!" Dean protested. Sam raised an eyebrow. "Besides, you can't go back to sleep yet." He crawled over to the edge of Sam's bed and sprang across the gap between the two, landing half on Sam's chest. "Oof."

"Uh." Sam swallowed, "Why not?"

"I have to tell you what Az told me." Dean said, propping himself up on his elbows, digging them into Sam's chest.

"Dude. Get off me."

"Nuh uh." Dean said, jabbing him with his pointy elbows, "This is payback for the cuddling."

Sam grabbed him around his tiny waist and manhandled him over to the edge of the bed. Dean gave a distinctly girly squeak and balled his fists in the comforter to keep from falling off the bed.

"Not cool."

"Whatever, Dean. What did the angel say?" Sam sat up and looked at him intently. "You obviously didn't like it."

"Yeah. Well." Dean picked at the blanket for a minute before continuing. "Az wants to use me as a vessel."

"What? No!" Sam was on his feet in an instant. "Dean, why are you even considering this?"

"He might be able to help us!" Dean said, "Getting me changed back, the Leviathan."

"Yeah, and he might not!" Sam snarled, "Look what happened to the last angel who tangled with Leviathan!"

"You think I don't know that?" Dean snapped, "But we have to do something! We are no closer to getting rid of these things than we were at the beginning and we're down to just the two of us!"

"It's not worth risking you for, Dean!" Sam shouted, "For all we know, he could be pro-Apocalypse like Raphael. Or a defector, like Uriel! And then where would I be?"

"Now Sam, that's not fair." Lucifer said from where he was leaning on the bathroom doorframe, "Everyone here knows you're the one who does all the leaving."

"I'm not going to leave you, Sammy." Dean said softly, and Sam blinked, wondering what he'd said out loud. "But I think we can trust Az. And if we want any hope of winning this fight, I think we're going to have to."

All the fight drained out of Sam, then, and he sank down on the edge of his bed. "I guess you have to do what you think is best." he said hollowly. He could feel Dean's eyes on him, but he didn't look up.

"Sam--"

"I'm gonna go back to bed, kay?" he quickly cut Dean off, laying down with his back to his brother. He pulled the sheets over his head and tried not to notice how cold he was.


	8. Chapter 8

When Sam woke up the next morning, he was alone in the motel room. For a moment, he sat, frozen on the bed, his knuckles turning white from how tightly he was gripping the edge of the mattress, panic crashing over him in waves.

"And you actually believed him when he said he wouldn't leave you." Lucifer scoffed.

"Shut up." Sam snarled, "He didn't leave me."

Lucifer shrugged. "Maybe not." He pushed off the wall and stalked towards Sam. "But he was all set to say yes to that angel last night. For all you know, Dean could be halfway around the world and not even in control of his own meat suit." He leaned down into Sam's face. "Or worse yet. Maybe he finally got wise to your little secret and left."

Sam shoved past him and went to look out the window. The spot where the Impala had been parked the night before was damnably empty and he felt his stomach twist with nausea

"Personally," Lucifer said, popping up right at Sam's shoulder, "I'd guess it was that last one.”

"You're just trying to mess with my head," Sam said with more confidence than he actually felt, "He doesn't know. He can't."

"Anyone can figure out anything if you give them enough time," Lucifer whispered, icy breath fanning across Sam's face, "And you've given Dean _years._ "

"Stop it."

"Not to mention that non-consensual snuggling last night. And the cold shower that followed."

"Please," Sam ground out, backing away from him, "Stop."

But Lucifer kept after him until he was pinned to the wall, the angel's hands caging him in on either side.

"Tell me, Sammy," he hissed, "Did you really believe that hunting would bring you absolution? Incest is a cardinal sin, kiddo, and you started young. You would’ve been mine even without taking the swan dive yourself."

Sam pressed himself against the wall as if he could melt into it by sheer force of will. He dug his fingernails into the scar in his palm until he felt blood running hot down his wrist.

Lucifer fuzzed out like a television and vanished, revealing Dean standing frozen in the open doorway, a greasy paper bag hanging limply in his grasp. Concern and horror were warring for control over his expression and Sam knew there was no playing it off this time.

He smiled weakly anyway. "Hey.”

"Is he here right now?" Dean asked straightaway, his voice pitched low. Sam shook his head.

"No. He vanished when you came in."

Dean's gaze focused in on Sam's hand and he had a split second to realize that blood was dripping down his fingers and onto the carpet before Dean was at his side. He took Sam's hand in both of his, hissing through his teeth as he examined it.

"Jesus, Sammy, are you okay?"

Sam thought about lying, but what came out when he opened his mouth was: "No. Not really."

Dean's fingers tightened around his. "Let's get this cleaned up," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, Dean." said Sam, feeling miserable.

"Dammit, Sammy, it's not your fault!" Dean snapped, then, in a rare moment of compassion, he grabbed Sam and squeezed him tight.

The hug was awkward, having taken Sam completely by surprise, and Dean as a girl was a lot shorter, so his arms were around Sam's waist instead of his shoulders, but Sam relaxed into it for the few seconds Dean allowed before shoving him away.

"Fuckin' girly hormones," he muttered, scrubbing at the back of his neck. "Get your ass in the bathroom and let me fix your hand before it gets infected or something."

Sam grinned in spite of himself and followed Dean into the bathroom. He sat down on the lip of the bathtub and watched his older brother dig around for the sewing kit.

"Gimme your hand and eat your breakfast." Dean instructed, shoving an Egg McMuffin into his brother's uninjured hand. He sat down opposite his brother, on the lid of the toilet.

"Someone's over-caffeinated this morning." Sam commented, taking a bite out of his sandwich.

Dean dabbed at his hand with a peroxide-soaked cotton ball. "Didn't go back to sleep last night." He tossed the bloody cotton ball into the trash and started threading the needle without looking at his brother. "Dude, I can't believe you dug in deep enough to need stitches again."

"Dean." Sam said, at a loss. "You--" _You would let the whole world end because I didn't want you to do something that might save it? Does my opinion really mean so much?_ "--you should say yes to Aziraphale."

Dean's fingers stilled over Sam's hand and he finally raised his eyes to his brother's. "You didn't want me to last night." he pointed out, but there was no accusation in his voice.

"I was wrong." Sam admitted, "If there's something we can do that might save some more people, we've gotta do it. Hell knows I've done worse for less noble reasons."

"Only if you're sure, Sammy." Dean mumbled, ducking his head to work on his brother's hand again. He finished the stitches and starting wrapping it in gauze.

"I'm sure," Sam said quietly, "But it's not my decision, Dean." Even though he didn't look up, Dean nodded slowly.

"All done here." he said, releasing Sam's hand. "Try not to injure yourself again, hmm? I'm going to go take a nap."

*

While Dean dozed on the bed nearest the door, Sam took to the laptop for some research. They'd been to all five branches of the Springfield library to no avail. They had to look somewhere else.

Sam had a vague memory of being in Cuba, Missouri during his fourteenth summer: a little rental house that had come pre-furnished, which meant no sleeping on the floor; Dean bringing home free rentals from his job at the video store and unknowingly making Sam's skin itch in frightening new ways every time he emerged from the pond behind the house, water sparkling like diamonds as the sun caressed his freckled shoulders. More importantly, he remembered his father spending hours on end at the home of another hunger by the name of Trotter. _Other than Bobby,_ Sam recalled his father saying, _Trotter's got the best goddamn collection of supernatural research I've ever seen._

Well, Bobby was gone, along with his collection, so Sam figured this was the next best thing. A quick trip to Google confirmed it was only a couple hours away.

*

Feeling a little bit better, Sam closed out the browser and pulled up a game of solitaire while he waited for Dean to wake up. He noticed his knee was bouncing anxiously and made an effort to stop, only succeeding for a few moments before he started up again. Sam knew he wouldn't be able to calm down until Dean woke up and confirmed that Aziraphale didn't mean any harm.

Luckily, it didn't take long before Dean started to stir. Sam went to sit on the edge of the bed, ignoring, for once, the careful rules he'd made for himself. Dean blinked up at him groggily and Sam pasted on something that resembled a smile.

"You possessed or what?" he asked in a lame attempt at joking. His brother scowled at him, an expression that was pure Dean.

But then he opened his mouth and said, in a posh voice that sounded nothing like his own: _"Possession is involuntary. Dean gave me permission."_

"Don't get worked up about it, Az," Dean said in his own voice, "He's trying to be funny. Don't quit your day job, Sammy."

"Because I make so much money at my day job." Sam answered, rolling his eyes so Dean wouldn't see how relieved he was. Judging by the twitch of Dean's lips, he needn't have bothered; his brother knew him too well.

 _"So you're Sam Winchester,"_ Aziraphale said with Dean's mouth, _"The boy who stopped the Apocalypse."_ There was respect and a sad sort of understanding in his expression. Sam looked away.

"It's nice to have an ally again," he said, picking at the comforter, "Thanks for not being evil."

The laughter he got for that was all Dean. "I told you so," he said in that tone of voice reserved specially for older siblings. "So...what now?"

 _"I want to find my friend,"_ Aziraphale said, _"But I don't have the first clue where to begin. The Leviathan takes precedence."_

"But getting Dean back to normal is our first priority,” said Sam.

"It's been a weird week for me," admitted Dean, "Turned into a chick and a vessel for an angel all within three days."

"I had an idea," Sam said, "Do you remember the summer we stayed in Cuba, Missouri?"

A strange look flashed across Dean's face, so quickly that Sam couldn't identify it. It almost looked like panic. But then Dean shrugged and said: "Sure, I worked at the video store" and Sam wondered if he'd imagined the whole thing.

"Well, remember we lived by that lake and there was that guy that lived down at the end of the road that Dad spent all that time with?"

Dean caught on immediately, "Son of a bitch! I'd forgotten all about Trotter! You're a genius, Sammy!"

 _"Sorry."_ said Aziraphale, _"Who is this Trotter?"_

"Can't you read his mind?" Sam wondered aloud.

"Dude," Dean said, indignant, "Boundaries." Sam shrugged. "Trotter's another hunter. Dad always said that he had some of the most in-depth supernatural research available."

_"So you think he might be able to reverse your condition?"_

"Or has a book that can tell us how to do it," Sam said, "It's worth a try, anyway. Cuba's only a couple hours from here."

"What're we waiting for, then?" Dean demanded, "I'm seriously tired of being a girl."

"Okay," Sam nodded, "Let's get packed and then we can grab some lunch on the way out of town."

"As long as lunch includes pie," Dean put in immediately.

Sam grinned. Some things never changed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say, for the record, that I actually wrote this chapter early in the morning on Friday the 16th, so the whole "Stairway to Heaven" thing is just a freaky coincidence!
> 
> Read on!

They made it to Cuba before dark. Dean had learned how to compensate for his loss in stature by scooting the bench seat forward and had gotten back to driving at his typical breakneck pace. Sam, for his part, was more than a little grumpy, his legs cramped from being pressed to the dashboard and his head pounding from Lucifer's rendition of "Stairway to Heaven."

"Where to?" Dean asked as they zoomed past the sign welcoming them to town.

"You've gotta get on St. Highway double-dee." Sam said, twisting in his seat to get a little more legroom. "It goes out and around the lake, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, "I remember. It's like the last place we lived before you started turning into a bitchy teenager."

"Dude, I was fourteen, what did you expect?" Sam said, letting his voice stay light. He had to remind himself that Dean didn't know that a considerable part of Sam's behavioral changes that summer had been due to his feelings towards Dean, and as far as Sam was concerned he didn't ever need to know.

"I was never that whiny at fourteen." Dean said loftily. But he grinned. "Remember the rope swing we put over the lake?"

"How could I possibly forget?" Sam laughed, "I think that's the only concussion I've ever had that wasn't caused by a monster. Dad was so pissed."

 _"Not to interrupt your nostalgia,"_ Aziraphale said, _"But are you certain that this Trotter fellow is a friend? From what I understand, many hunters don't work well with others."_

Dean shrugged, creating a very weird visual for Sam, who'd just seen his mouth form the question. "I mean, we aren't best friends or whatever, but he'll help us. Our dad did him a solid when we were here last time."

"He did?" Sam said, surprised, "I didn't know that."

"You remember the werewolf he was hunting that we followed out here in the first place?" Dean asked. When Sam nodded, he continued, "Turns out it was Trotter's sister. Caught his scent and followed it up here. He couldn't do the job...which is where we came in."

 _"I don't understand."_ said Aziraphale, _"Why do you think he would be friendly with you after you killed his sister?"_

"I didn't say we were friends." Dean corrected, "I said he would help us. His sister was killing people and he couldn't bring himself to hurt her. There's no cure for werewolfism."

"There wasn't any other option." Sam said quietly. Dean glanced over like he knew what his brother was thinking.

 _"That's just_ dreadful _."_ said Aziraphale so bluntly that Sam couldn't help but laugh.

"Story of our lives, man."

"Here we are," Dean said, pulling the car into a long, secluded driveway, "Let's go."

"There's no car." Sam observed as they walked up to the house. It was a lot like Bobby's had been: a rundown old two-story with windows looking out at the deserted street like eyes.

"Maybe it's in the garage around back,” suggested Dean. He took the steps up to the porch, two at a time and rapped on the door. "Hello? Trotter?"

There was silence, except for the sound of a bird calling out through the trees. Dean knocked again.

"Why is it that everyone you two inflict yourselves upon winds up missing or dead?" Lucifer asked, peering in the windows, "Because I'm pretty sure this guy is dead."

"Is it locked?" Sam wondered, reaching for the doorknob. It turned easily in his hand. He pushed it lightly and it swung inward with a groan.

"Well that's not ominous at all." Dean muttered.

"Is Trotter the kind of hunter that's prone to leaving his doors unlocked?" Aziraphale asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"Let's check it out." Dean whispered, drawing his gun and checking the munitions. Sam followed suit. "You take the second floor, I'll search this one."

It only took twenty minutes to scour the joint and when they met back up in the living room, both were empty handed.

"Where could he be?" Sam wondered, "I'd think there would at least signs of a struggle if something took him."

"Maybe nothing took him." Dean said, walking over to a gun cabinet that stood on the opposite wall. He pulled it open, revealing a single empty shotgun rack and what looked like the indention of large knife in the open case on the inside the cabinet floor. "Maybe he's on a hunt."

"Maybe." Sam agreed, but he wasn't entirely convinced. "Should we just wait for him?"

Dean shrugged. "Just as good a place as any. Probably not gonna get found by Leviathan out here."

 _"While we're waiting,"_ Aziraphale suggested, _"Perhaps we could look through his library and find out if he has any information about how to return Dean to his original form."_ He sounded almost eager and Dean rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Are you kidding me?" he groaned, "Now I have two dorks to deal with?!"

Despite his complaining, Dean joined in on the hunt for a useful book. It was rough going; Trotter's library was crammed to bursting with books, in every possible nook and cranny once he'd filled out the shelves, and there didn't seem to be a particular order to anything, much to both Aziraphale and Sam's dismay. It was starting to get dark outside, so they switched on the lights and continued working.

 _"If we had more time, I would make sure these books got the treatment they deserve."_ the angel said, a little indignantly after he discovered a book shoved in the desk that had begun to mold.

"Is this what you're going to be like when you get old, Sammy? A grumpy, reclusive hunter who likes books more than people?" Dean asked, turning to his brother, "Sammy? Are you okay?"

Sam was sitting in the chair nearest the door, holding his head in his hands, a pained expression on his face.

"Sam!" Dean said loudly, crossing to him. "Are you with me, man?"

Sam blinked, and looked up at his brother. His expression was clear, but there was a light sheen of sweat over his forehead and his face was pale.

"I'm fine, Dean, I'm handling it." Sam said. "I'm going to go for a walk. It's too claustrophobic in here."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but he just pursed his lips and said, "Don't go too far."

Sam nodded distractedly and stumbled out the door without another word.

*

After walking aimlessly for a while, Sam found himself at the shoreline of the lake. He kicked at a pile of pebbles and looked out over the dark water. The sun was no longer visible in the sky, but the faint orange glow of sunset still gleamed over the horizon.

"You seem down, Sam," said Lucifer, "What's the matter?"

Sam didn't answer, not even when the lake caught fire. It wasn't anything new.

"Saaaaaaam! I'm bored!" he moaned, "Talk to me!" Sam caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up.

"There's someone in the water." he said, staring out over the lake.

Lucifer paused mid-fit. "What?"

"There's someone in the water!" Even in the growing dark, Sam could clearly see a small figure in the water, struggling to remain afloat. He stripped off his shirt and dove into the water, hardly registering Lucifer's disappearance.

The water was cold and dark and Sam disappeared under the surface with hardly a ripple.

*

"Sam?" Dean strode down the beach, his irritation growing. "Dammit, Sam, you've been gone for ages!"

 _"I'm sure he's fine,"_ Aziraphale said, trying to be reassuring. _"He probably just lost track of time."_

"Or he convinced himself that fuckin' Satan was real again and did something stupid." Dean took a few more steps forward and promptly tripped over something. He threw his hands out to catch himself, and scraped his palms on the pebbled ground. "Ow, Christ, what--?"

It was Sam's shirt. Dean felt fear slide down his spine like ice. "Sam!" There was no reply, but for the waves gently lapping against the shore.

_"Dean, don't pan--"_

"--ean!" Sam's voice broke through the silence and Dean spun to look out at the water. For a split second, he saw the top of his brother's head and an arm and then something dragged him back under the surface.

Dean was in the water before Aziraphale could protest, swimming towards his brother as quickly as possible.

"Can't see." he gasped when he came up for air. "Az..." The angel understood immediately, accessing his Grace and white light lit the water around them and suddenly, terribly, he could see.

Sam was being dragged down toward the bottom of the lake, head lolling. The surrounding water was a cloudy red that made Dean's stomach lurch. But the creature that was latched onto Sam was even worse.

It was a slick black color, like spilled oil, and its fingers were bone thin and ended in wickedly sharp claws. It appeared to be caught mid-morph between human and something more animalistic. Dean gave an angry shout and swallowed a mouthful of lake water.

Suddenly he wasn't in control of his body anymore, just a passenger and, for a moment, he panicked. Then he heard Aziraphale's voice in his head: _"Let me help"_ and he immediately stopped struggling.

Aziraphale reached out and grabbed the creature. It barely had time to turn and bare its yellowed fangs before lightning sparked across its skin and it released Sam with a dying screech.

Dean snapped back into place like a rubber band and everything went dark. For a moment, he floated, disoriented, before he managed to get Sam's arm around his shoulder and started paddling towards shore, struggling to keep his brother's head above the water. He could feel Aziraphale, a throbbing at the base of his skull and it occurred to him that something was wrong with the angel, but he was distracted by the near impossibility of dragging Sam to shore. For what felt like the hundredth time that day, he cursed the demon bitch that had done this to him. He was too small to handle all of Sam’s bulk and he had to keep stopping to make sure his brother’s head hadn’t dipped back under the water.

Finally, they reached the shore, and Dean was sure it was only adrenaline that had gotten them this far his legs shook under him and he felt like he was going to be sick. He dragged Sam's upper half out of the water as much as he could and dropped to his knees beside him, gasping for breath.

It didn't look good. A deep gash ran across his chest, left shoulder to right hip and he wasn't breathing, lips blue.

"No, no, no, c'mon Sammy," Dean muttered. He put his head on his brother's chest and felt the weak flutter of a heartbeat under his ear. He sat back on his haunches and started doing compressions, his hands slipping in Sam's blood.

"Come on, Sam, don't do this to me!" he gasped. "You don't get to do this!"

Sam still wasn't breathing. Dean did a few more compressions, but there was no reaction.

 _"Remember, if someone's drowning, you have to check their mouth for obstruction before you start rescue breathing,"_ Dean heard his father's voice as if he was standing right next to him.

Sam's airways were clear, so Dean plugged his nose and covered his mouth with his own, trying to breathe evenly against the sheer terror in his chest. But Sam still wasn't responding. Dean leaned back and went through another set of compressions.

"I swear to God, Sam, if you die on me right now..."

He did another set of rescue breaths and black spots started to bloom in the corners of his vision. It was no use, he was too small and fragile in this unfamiliar body to be of any help to Sam...

Sam's jerked forward and Dean fell back, Sam's forehead barely missing cracking into his nose. The younger Winchester rolled onto his side and started retching up water while the older took a few deep, shuddering breaths and tried not to cry in relief.

"Sammy," he gasped, and it came out sounding more like a sob, "We gotta get you inside, got to stop that bleeding."

Sam didn't seem to hear him, flopping back down on his back, eyes fluttering. "Az, help me out here, man!"

 _"Dean..."_ the angel's voice sounded faint, _"I don't think I have enough power to heal him."_

"He's gonna bleed to death!" Dean shouted, his voice going thin and hysterical, "Help me!"

Aziraphale didn't say anything, but for the second time that evening, Dean felt the sensation of not being in control of his own body. The angel leaned over and grabbed Sam's wrist and suddenly, they were back inside Trotter's house, lying on the library floor.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ Aziraphale said, _"That's the best I can do. I have to recuperate and then I'll do what I can to help Sam."_ Dean felt his head go fuzzy for a moment and assumed Az was doing whatever the angel variation of "sleeping it off" might be.

"Good enough," Dean said savagely, scrambling to his feet. He felt dizzy and lightheaded from the swim and the rescue breathing, but he managed to stumble into the kitchen and find a first aid kit. The harder part was getting Sam's limp body onto the couch, Dean's thin arms screaming in protest and he hauled his brother up and on to the sofa.

"Sammy, wake up," he pleaded, "You gotta stay awake, you've lost a lot of blood."

Sam's eyes didn't open, but he groaned. "Can we play twenty questions?" he asked.

Dean felt a rush of relief. It was a trick their dad had taught them, back when Sam wasn't even old enough to drive. To keep a person awake, you gotta keep them talking. "Sure, Sammy. Ask away."

"Is it animal, vegetable, mineral, or other?" he asked, hissing a little as Dean started dabbing at the edges of the gash with a washcloth.

"Animal."

"It's Batman." Sam said immediately. Dean gaped at him.

"Dude! That's not fair!"

"My turn," Sam insisted. His eyes were still closed, but there was a thin smile playing at his lips, like he was trying to stay optimistic, even in the face of this new blow. It broke Dean's heart a little bit and he took a moment to collect himself before speaking.

"Fine. Animal?"

"Yes."

"Is it a guy?" There was a long moment of silence. "Sam, you still with me?"

"It's a guy." Sam said finally, and Dean let out the breath he had been holding.

"Brad Pitt?"

A crease appeared in Sam's forehead. "You always jump to Brad Pitt first. You got a crush on him or something?"

"I'll take that as a no." Dean answered. "What number was that?"

"Three," Sam said, after a moment's pause, "So, what, you're just not gonna answer me?"

"It's my turn to ask the questions, Samantha," Dean said, threading a wicked looking needle with dental floss.

"Oh, that's rich coming from you right now, Deanna." Sam teased. "At least I don't actually have the--"

"Question four," Dean cut him off, "Is he famous?"

"Not in the traditional sense." Sam answered.

"Hey, yes or no answers only!"

"Please, Dean, you know I own you at this game," his brother teased, "You need all the help you can get."

"Yeah, yeah." muttered the older Winchester, "Here, take these before I start on the stitches." He shoved a handful of pain pills into Sam's hand and then snagged up the bottle of whiskey he'd grabbed from the Impala's wheel well.

Sam finally opened his eyes then, looking considerably cognizant for what he’d been through. Obediently, he tossed back the pills and chased them with a swallow of the whiskey. He coughed a couple of times and then slumped back against the arm of the sofa.

"Question five?" he asked softly.

"Um...is he a fictional character?"

"Nope."

“Is he tall?” Dean asked.

“Eh.” replied Sam, a mischievous light in his eyes.

“Dude, that’s not a yes or no answer.” Dean poked at him experimentally with the needle, but Sam just laughed. It looked like the pain meds were kicking in quick. Thank God for small mercies. “Sam?”

“Like...taller than average, but still shorter than me.” Sam mumbled. His words were starting to slur slightly, so Dean started in on the stitches.

"Everyone's shorter than you."

"Shut up, jerk."

"The dude off the Oxy Clean commercials?" Dean threw out a random guess, more focused on the stitches than the game.

"Noooooo. I said he's not famous!" Sam whined.

"You said 'not in the traditional sense'." Dean pointed out. Sam rolled his eyes. "Eight: is he someone we know?"

"Yeahhh." Sam said, a little sleepily, his eyes drooping. Dean poked him in the ribs again and Sam batted his hands away, but opened his eyes. For a moment, he looked about nine years old again, trusting his brother to fix everything, and Dean had to look away.

"Nine: Is he an angel?" He finished the stitches and started taping down gauze. His knuckles brushed lightly over his brother's stomach and Sam shivered and giggled.

He grinned up at Dean, the blissed-out, carefree smile of the heavily sedated. "Could be."

"Dude, that's not a yes or no answer," Dean exclaimed, "You're cheating!"

"Question ten, Deaaaaaaaan."

Dean sighed. "I can't think of a good question."

"Ask if he's attractive." Sam said so quietly that Dean almost didn't hear it.

"If he's attract--what?"

"The answer's yes." said Sam, looking sidelong at his brother. Dean swallowed, a feeling of trepidation coming over him. "Do you know who it is yet?"

"No." he whispered. Sam's hand closed around his wrist and yanked him down, their lips crashing together with a sudden inevitability.

"It's you." Sam murmured against his mouth and then Dean was being kissed within an inch of his life. It couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds before he wrenched away, but Dean felt like maybe decades had passed while he'd been sitting there in a stranger's house getting kissed by his baby brother.

"Dude, what the fuck?" he gasped, stumbling backwards until he knocked into a bookshelf. He didn't even remember getting to his feet. "What the hell was that, Sam?"

Sam shrugged. He was way too calm for Dean’s liking. "I wanted to."

"You wanted---Jesus, Sam, are you even hearing yourself right now?" Sam blinked confusedly up at him and suddenly Dean felt like the world's biggest dick. "Dude, you're injured and you're as high as a freakin' kite."

"But I wanted to before I was drugged," Sam said, as if it were that simple.

Dean barked out a nervous laugh, "Sam, you just need to go sleep it off and we'll deal with this in the morning."

For once in his life, Sam didn't argue. He got shakily to his feet, swaying slightly, and let Dean lead him to the downstairs bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed as soon as his brother shoved him towards it, asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

Dean went into the bathroom at the end of the hall and washed his face, hands, and arms, watching Sam's blood disappear down the drain. He stared at the unfamiliar face in the mirror for a long moment before going back to sit in the library.

If Az was there, he made no indication of it and Dean flopped sideways on the couch, feeling very lost and very alone.


End file.
